Two hours
by daisybelle
Summary: The average body of a human adult contains five to six litres blood. Depending on the body it can lose up to 2 litres until you lose consciousness or your life. It's funny what you remember when you lie in a lake of your own blood. I never told Sherlock that I loved him. Please God, let me live. I have to tell him.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: **_This was written for good-deduction's prompt and the Johnlockchallenges Extra Exchange 2012

* * *

**Time 12:57 pm**

_The average body of a human adult contains five to six litres blood. Depending on the body it can lose up to 2 litres until you lose consciousness or your life._

It's funny what you remember when you lie in a lake of your own blood.

_I never told Sherlock that I loved him._

_Please God, let me live. I have to tell him._

* * *

**Time 11:52 am**

Textmessage from John Watson:

_Hello Mike, sorry, will be late, still one patient, terminal cancer, might take a while. JW_

**Time 11:57 am**

"Hello, Mr Richardson, come in."

"Dr Watson." The greeting in return was bordering on rude as always, but after living with Sherlock for years he was used to rudeness, he barely even noticed it. What he was not used to was the rather manic appearance of his patient with glazed eyes and a fidgetiness that was quite discomforting.

"Please calm down. You don't do yourself any good if you get so tensed up. Try to exhale slowly and count to ten", John advised and was startled by the mad-sounding giggle that he received in return.

"That's what I always told them, Doctor, that's what I always said. Breathe slowly and count to ten."

Not sure what to make of this statement John steered the man to the examination table, helping him to sit down. Two fever-glazed eyes looked at him intently and John felt a kind of uneasiness that surprised him.

"I was a Doctor, Dr Watson. Not a surgeon like you, an anaesthetist. I watched surgeons like you, watched them cutting into bodies."

Okay, now Mr Richardson had officially crossed the line to creepy and was on his way way beyond this line. In a conspiratorial voice he continued.

"I wanted that too, you know, wanted to feel the power to cut, but she died. She would have died anyway. Brain tumor, you know. But she allowed me to cut her and I liked it."

The sudden movement that accompanied those words was completely unexpected and at first John felt nothing, just the thud of Mr Richardson's fists on his stomach, but when he looked down he saw red soaking through his clothes, a scalpel and a syringe in the other man's hands.

"Nobody would have known, but he wouldn't give up. He cost me my job, my life, my marriage and now he has to pay."

John still stared at the hands of his assailant, barely aware of those words. _Shock_, his medical brain supplied, _put pressure on wound_. His hands followed those orders, although he could feel blackness creeping in. _Stay awake_. But his knees gave out and the only reason he didn't just crumble to the floor were two hands on his elbow that led him down.

"The syringe held a little cocktail of blood thinner and an anaesthetic. My own mixture, I'm rather proud."

For a moment all he could see was the beige ceiling of his office before Mick Richardson's face came into focus (although a bit blurry). His hands were gently elevated from his stomach and put beside him.

"Don't want to spoil the results, Dr Watson."

Then the man vanished from John's view and he heard rumouring at his desk. John tried to follow the sound, but it was already a huge effort to simply move his head. He saw the other man ripping something – the chord from his office's phone, his brain told him eternities later – and picked up a little black box – ah yes, John's mobile phone.

Richardson returned to John, evaluating him before leaving the room. The last thing John heard before he fell into darkness were "See you in the afterlife, Dr Watson".

**Time 12:17 pm**

Mike Stamford glanced at his watch. He had only twenty minutes left before he should be on his way back to St. Bart's for his afternoon lesson. For the second time he dialled John Watson's number and for the second time he only reached the mailbox. He was obviously still with his patient.

Sighing Stamford signalled the waiter and ordered his pasta. He had looked forward to his lunch with John. Recently the ex-army surgeon had been too busy with Sherlock Holmes' cases that he had cancelled several meetings. It was quite ironic that he now cancelled one due to his own profession. The pasta was good, but still no John Watson in sight. When he paid he tried to call again with the same result, this time he left a message explaining that he was already on his way back to the office, maybe they could reschedule.

**Time 12:31 pm**

_It was odd. Odd. The oddest thing. Sherlock saying thank you. It was never necessary. They understood each other without talking. Talking was dangerous. Things could be said that destroyed their friendship. Confessions._

Slowly John drifted out of the darkness.

_Why did he lay on the ground? _

_Wet, there was something wet under his hands. _

_Why were his hands so heavy? _

It took him ages to bring his hand before his eyes.

_Dripping red. _

_Red? _

_Oh. _

_Blood. _

_Not good. _

_Stay awake, stay aw…_

**Time 12:36 pm**

Returning to St. Bart's Mike Stamford was greeted by the sight of Sherlock Holmes talking intently to a heavily burdened Molly Hooper. The quick assessing was quite typical for Sherlock, but somehow still unsettling.

"I thought you were having lunch with John. What happened?"

And leaving you wondering if you wore some kind of neon sign, telling everything about your day.

"John didn't show up, he texted me that he had a patient."

"Did you call him?"

"Yes, but he never answered, he never does when he is with a patient."

With a swift elegant motion Sherlock took his own mobile out of his pocket, hitting one button before holding it against his ear. Mike always felt that it was rather unfair how the detective always managed to look so elegant, letting everyone around him become self-conscious about their own clumsiness. Judging from Molly's look she felt the same.

It took 30 seconds before Sherlock's face assumed a frown; he took his mobile down and dialled another number. This time he waited longer but the result was nevertheless the same. The phone was lowered again and Mike could see a rare display of emotions on the detective's face. Uneasiness, discomfort, worry, reluctance. But another button was pressed, this time the call was answered.

"Where is John?"

Mike couldn't understand the answer on the other side, but it was clear that Sherlock didn't like it.

"He isn't answering neither his mobile nor his office line, he missed his date with Stamford, I just want to know where he is."

Another short break, followed by an exasperated: "Of course I wait."

Although Sherlock stood stock still, Mike could see the tension in his long limbs and the mental foot tapping while waiting.

"Are you sure? … Okay."

Without another word he ended the call, already heading for the exit without another glance to Molly or Mike. They both stared at each other, too long acquainted with Sherlock's sudden changes, but Mike could easily read the same worry that possessed him in her eyes.

"He survived a war and Sherlock's …" Mike ended that sentence with a vague gesture, too aware of Molly's role in Sherlock's disappearance.

"Yes, you're right. I'm sure, he's fine."

The uneasiness between them was quite unbecoming, and Mike was almost relieved when he remembered the lecture he was supposed to give.

**Time 12:40 pm**

_Sherlock in front of his door. The hair too short, but the same mesmerizing eyes, the same angular face, the same lanky body. He never told him that it was one of the happiest days in his life. _

_(Never told him how close he had been to pull the trigger of his own gun.) _

**Time 12:43 pm**

Mycroft wasn't surprised by the sudden end of his brother's call. John Watson had been the centre of Sherlock's universe almost since day one and even more so after his brother's return from the dead. For every sane person around them it was painful to watch those two dancing around each other and failing to notice the other's infatuation. All of Mycroft's less than subtle hints had been met with ignorance and he was seriously considering drastic measurements to make them see.

With a little sigh he returned to the problem at hand. Unknowingly he shared Mike Stamford's opinion, John survived so much and he should be safe at the surgery. On the other side the pair of them wasn't known for their uneventful life. He re-watched the CCTV feeds of the surgery, noting the staff leaving the building group by group, but no John. After a few minutes a man emerged from the back door, the door nearest to John's office. Something about him rang a faint bell, that's why he ran a close-up of him through facial recognition.

**Time 12:52 pm**

This time the dizziness felt different, not so artificial. It took all his strength to lay his hands on his stomach, attempting some kind of pressure, but it felt as if the blood was still running through his fingers. He was running out of time.

He had never thought he would die in his own office.

He had also never thought that he would fall in love with his best friend. He had never dared to ask for more. He already had received his share of miracles, Sherlock had returned.

**Time 12:57 pm**

The shot in his shoulder had been a sharp burn, the blood loss too fast to register.

_The average body of a human adult contains five to six litres blood. Depending on the body it can lose up to 2 litres until you lose consciousness or your life. _

It's funny what you remember when you lie in a lake of your own blood.

_I never told Sherlock that I loved him._

_I thought he knew._

_He is stupid with emotions._

_He does not know._

_Sherlock should know._

_Please God, let me live. I have to tell him._


	2. Chapter 2

**Time 01:01 pm**

"Anthea, dear, would you please check the CCTV footage of Dr Watson during the past month for appearances of this man. And find his current location."

"This man?" Two perfectly modelled eyebrows were raised.

"Yes, Mick Richardson. One of Sherlock's first cases. He was recently released from prison."

"As you wish, Sir."

**Time 01:04 pm**

Of course, the surgery was still closed. They usually had a two-hour-break before it opened again for their patients. Sherlock didn't even bothered with the front door; instead he strode with long steps to the back door, expertly picking this lock. Not for the first time he wondered about the low security of this door, but this time he was actually thankful for it since he entered the surgery within a minute.

John's office was directly in front of him, but when he tried the door, it was locked. It took him even less time to pick this lock and he opened it in an instant. He was greeted with a scene from his worst nightmare.

John Watson in a lake of his own blood.

He had never told anyone, but there was a time on the roof, when he feared that his death wouldn't be enough.

That Moriarty never intended to let his friends live.

That there was no John Watson to return to.

But Moriarty was dead. His web destroyed. John should have been safe.

Not lying in his office, dying.

Panicked the detective knelt beside the doctor, searching for a pulse. The rush of relief when he felt a weak fluttering under his fingers was followed by a rush of action. The source of the blood was quickly found. Using John's hands he pressed his left hand on the wound, hoping to stop the bleeding. With his other hand he reached for his phone.

"Mycroft, ambulance, he is bleeding out. Backdoor."

"Already on their way, I'll explain later."

Unceremoniously Sherlock ended the call, using both hands on John now. Five eternal minutes later he heard the footsteps of the paramedics.

Their work was quick and efficient. Only moments later John received an infusion while lying on a stretcher and pushed into the ambulance.

"You're his boyfriend? Want to ride with us?"

**Time 01:15 pm**

There were days when Greg Lestrade hated his phone. Those were the days when only bad news came in. And calls from Mycroft Holmes were never a good sign.

"I've just send you a file with a warrant and location to arrest Mick Richardson for the attempted murder of Dr Watson. I will be there for the interrogation."

There had been a time when he questioned the Holmes brothers, but he had long learned his lesson. (And Mycroft had said attempted. Attempted didn't mean success. That was good. Probably.)

"Donovan, follow me."

**Time 01:17 pm**

Boyfriend.

He didn't like the sound of this word. It was too juvenile. And too close to what he really wanted.

But he wasn't stupid enough to contradict the paramedic's assumption. And now he stared on John Watson's pale face, watching his infusion with saline solution.

He dared to take one of John's hands. It was so cold. John was never cold.

John hadn't been cold the last time they had hold hands. The situation had been far from ideal, but the handcuffed escape from the police was one of Sherlock's favourite memories, especially for those brief moments when their fingers had been intertwined.

He had to let John's hand go when they arrived at the hospital and John was rushed in one of their emergency wards.

**Time 01:38 pm**

Ten tiles on the floor from wall to wall. 37 between the two doors. 17 in the height of the walls. 247 in one row. Four doors on each side. Only one was important.

He tried to concentrate, tried to focus on the movements behind those doors. But he couldn't.

He paced along the corridor.

John was behind that door.

He sat down.

John dying.

He stood up again.

His pacing was stopped by a doctor. He hadn't noticed him emerging from John's room.

"Mr Watson?"

Mr Watson – he liked that. He liked the sound, the knowledge that it meant him. The happy feeling in his feeling crashed instantly. He would never be. But he nodded, laying a claim on this name.

"Your partner is stable. We stopped the bleeding and he receives now blood transfusions. We think he will be fine, but we'll know more when he wakes up. He was very lucky."

**Time 01:43 pm**

Mycroft watched through the mirror the interrogation of Mick Richardson. If interrogation was the right word for what was happening in front of him. Mick Richardson gloated with his attack on John, how he had followed him, realised his importance to the detective, how he left him on his office floor to die. To let Sherlock Holmes suffer.

**Time 01:51 pm**

The phone call was short.

_John Watson had been used again to hurt him. Obviously it worked as well as all the other times before. _

_A gun against John's head._

_John covered in explosives._

_A knife at John's throat._

_John lying in his own blood._

_Maybe Sally Donovan was right. _

_He was dangerous. _

_At least dangerous to the man he loved. _

_He probably should leave him, maybe should have stayed dead. _

_Leave now._

But he was unable to move, unable to leave.

_If John was a wise man he would send him away. Until that I'll stay._

**Time 01:57 pm**

This time he woke up to an annoying beeping.

The wet feeling under his back was replaced by rough cotton against his bare skin.

He felt the sting of an infusion in his left arm.

His right hand was painfully squeezed.

It took him ages to open his eyes, searching for the cause of his pain.

Sherlock. Sherlock holding his hand between his own.

Their eyes met.

A weak smile from the detective.

John's facial muscles hurt when he reciprocated.

They said nothing. The smile was everything that was necessary, they never needed words.

A memory. A beige ceiling.

_Please God, let me live. I have to tell him._

He opened his mouth, but all his vocal chords produced was a hoarse rasping sound. In an instant Sherlock released his hand, giving him an ice cube to suck on.

The warmth in those grey eyes let him suck impatiently. He wanted to tell him. Tell him now. Before another lunatic tried to kill one of them.

When he opened his mouth again, he was stopped by a long finger on his mouth.

"You shouldn't speak. Just rest."

He didn't know what possessed him, but John kissed the fingertip on his mouth. The effect was fascinating. Instantly the finger was removed, a rosy flush covered pale cheeks and Sherlock's pupils dilated.

"John." The detective sounded breathless.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

He would always remember the sign of wonder on Sherlock's face.

* * *

_**AN:**_ 1. The prompt was: Things left unsaid.

2. I have absolutely no medical training and a google search only covers so much, so the medical details are probably totally unrealistic. Just write this off to literary licence.


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